from I Wear Long Hair
| July 7, 2015 | Posted by Webmaster under Volume 23, Number 1, September 2012 |
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In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:
This one’s black. As outside chance. Also bigger and unruly.
I don’t want to be locked up! I can’t quit thinking tone
Notebook hair mood
Doubt or teeth. Truth under fingernail. Tighter interval
Dirt under
Don’t eat that! But I am starving.
I forget the taste of Bounty. I could walk on 5th
Avenue. I don’t listen to their Snickers. I look up at the Milky
Way.
The same but darker. No, it’s lighter, cloudy
Then saw a comet
The thing about not
cleaning himself
Girls are supposed to clean. I mean be clean.
But I am called Hildebrand.
Unless Holden Brent.
There’s constant changing.
With already five dead books: Oscillator, Ruled Notebook,
Unruled Notebook, Flaming Sword, Hildebrand’s Travel
Diary
die tone
so worn out
I can’t keep
red thicket
Also my v-neck sweater. It’s grey wool, I lent it to my little
brother. Except he took it without asking. And my pants that zip or
my maroon nylon jacket that zips like before.
But brother and sister/brother should always share, especially
if they exist in the same dimensions.
I unzipped my chest
I am not sure about the spacing and the timing.
Immanuel is useless here. There is no God here. Wait. Excuse me,
what does God mean?
My little brother is named Gregory unless Stevie. Unless he is
my friend, like Fredric was Fredrick’s. I.e. Shelley’s was Hugh
Dillon’s—but possibly not Holden Lem’s. Ditto Georg Howel was.
Isaak becomes Igor or Gregor or Stefek or Stevie, Fredric
becomes Stevie or Shelley, Frederic becomes Stevie or Shirley or
Sherrill, George becomes Gyorgy or Georgie or Gregory or Stevie,
Gregory equals Stevie, Gregory should be Grigor. No, Grigory.
I don’t know who my friends are. Are there friends? Or only
rooms? They have books with names who can befriend you. Only the
ones in books or who write them are my true friends and
comrades.
A friendship could go down the drain of the sink. Then the drain
is slow and clogged as if from lost hairs.
Your big head could sink low onto your weak chest, weigh it
down.
Some people are funny and comfortable so the people laugh at them
and adore them.
Some people have a system or found one so they are very
popular.
I thought, Quit laughing at me. Forget your
Aufhebung! I don’t want to be liked anyway.
It isn’t charming when no personal hygiene of the Jesus tits
with the halo nipples. He was trans when they sewed him.
The problem is with reason i.e. discursivity
I don’t want to think anymore!
I need to eat. I am starving from a longing
Jeanne D’Arc was given bread and a tower and rhythms with
repeats by Robert.
No guards to bring me toast
I am not protected here
She was not protected there
They spied on her through the small hole in the defense
My room is getting very serious like a situational semantics
I never read that book. It was brick red and thick with
technique flakes and pump fakes.
Forget the logical machinery, it’s too heavy now that I am
weaker. It hurt my wrist’s ambivalence
Weak sex
Hugh lost his Susette. Once I had a Suzanne. Later I had a
Liliane. Because they meant the same flower.
She would’ve made me toast.
I stand up to go eat. I miss my grey v-neck sweater.
There is no first principle but there is a first poem. Is this
it?
The desire is to flow like a river or how the ink spills out of
your pen. But self-consciousness.
Two trees on the cover of the French experience:
self-knowledge and life/eternity.
The question of what is below the I.
Or is the I the basis, first premise or first pain or first
poem?
Some notebooks have a line for the subject at the start like
Johnni/Felix. This notebook has lines all over but is collage-ruled
like French fragments or the rebellious, the remarks go wherever
under the cover/hairdo…